Chapter 11

Sixty seconds. That’s how long we’re required to stand on

our metal circles before the sound of a gong releases us. Step

off before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off.

Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant

from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone

with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet

high, spilling over with the things that will give us life here in

the arena. Food, containers of water, weapons, medicine, garments,

fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other

supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the

horn. For instance, only a few steps from my feet lays a threefoot

square of plastic. Certainly it could be of some use in a

downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack that

would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I had the

guts to go in and fight for it against the other twenty-three tributes.

Which I have been instructed not to do.

We’re on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of hardpacked

dirt. Behind the tributes across from me, I can see

nothing, indicating either a steep downward slope or even

cliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and back, spars piney

woods. This is where Haymitch would want me to go. Immediately.

I hear his instructions in my head. “Just clear out, put as

much distance as you can between yourselves and the others,

and find a source of water.”

But it’s tempting, so tempting, when I see the bounty waiting

there before me. And I know that if I don’t get it, someone

else will. That the Career Tributes who survive the bloodbath

will divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils. Something

catches my eye. There, resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a

silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung, just waiting

to be engaged. That’s mine, I think. It’s meant for me.

I’m fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our

school although a couple can beat me in distance races. But

this forty-yard length, this is what I am built for. I know I can

get it, I know I can reach it first, but then the question is how

quickly can I get out of there? By the time I’ve scrambled up

the packs and grabbed the weapons, others will have reached

the horn, and one or two I might be able to pick off, but say

there’s a dozen, at that close range, they could take me down

with the spears and the clubs. Or their own powerful fists.

Still, I won’t be the only target. I’m betting many of the other

tributes would pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored

an eleven in training, to take out their more fierce adversaries.

Haymitch has never seen me run. Maybe if he had he’d tell

me to go for it. Get the weapon. Since that’s the very weapon

that might be my salvation. And I only see one bow in that

whole pile. I know the minute must be almost up and will have

to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself positioning

my feet to run, not away into the stir rounding forests but

toward the pile, toward the bow. When suddenly I notice Peeta,

he’s about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance,

still I can tell he’s looking at me and I think he might be shaking

his head. But the sun’s in my eyes, and while I’m puzzling

over it the gong rings out.

And I’ve missed it! I’ve missed my chance! Because those

extra couple of seconds I’ve lost by not being ready are

enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for

a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take

and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a

loaf of bread. The pickings are so small and I’m so angry with

Peeta for distracting me that I sprint in twenty yards to retrieve

a bright orange backpack that could hold anything because

I can’t stand leaving with virtually nothing.

A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same

time I do and for a brief time we grapple for it and then he

coughs, splattering my face with blood. I stagger back, repulsed

by the warm, sticky spray. Then the boy slips to the

ground. That’s when I see the knife in his back. Already other

tributes have reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out

to attack. Yes, the girl from District 2, ten yards away, running

toward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. I’ve seen

her throw in training. She never misses. And I’m her next target.

All the general fear I’ve been feeling condenses into at immediate

fear of this girl, this predator who might kill me in

seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack

over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear

the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack

up to protect my head. The blade lodges in the pack. Both

straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees. Somehow I

know the girl will not pursue me. That she’ll be drawn back into

the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin

crosses my face. Thanks for the knife, I think.

At the edge of the woods I turn for one instant to survey the

field. About a dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one

another at the horn. Several lie dead already on the ground.

Those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees or

into the void opposite me. 

repulse

adrenaline

reflexively adv.条件反射式地；反身地